


Create and Destroy

by Jelliquinn



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Fucked up ness, Tongue trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 10:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jelliquinn/pseuds/Jelliquinn
Summary: Rose really should stop letting Strade drive her home.





	Create and Destroy

**Author's Note:**

> lmao thank my roleplay friends for this

Rough, yet purposeful as one would find a broken shard of glass, instruments that have the purpose in their own way, but eagerly waiting to deliver pain if the user isn’t careful. That is what his hands remind her of. Tough, and so very different from her own delicate fingers. They are the type of hands made for work, and slicked with some sort of grease always. Hands that you would expect to welcome while holding an oil stained rag, and spin you around while he chuckles,deep and rumbling, but offering a sort of comfort that you can’t help but lean in to. His grip is firm, but loose as he drives. As if he doesn't need to hold tight to know that he is in control. Still, he does, just the occasional tight squeezing of his hands as if he just likes making sure.

Rose glances down at her own, and holds them up to the light. Her hand is smaller than his, and undoubtedly softer. She takes care of her hands. She needs them. She is different, yet so alike to him in the regard that she needs his hands as much as he does. She melds, sculpting and molding while he breaks, destroys, and extinguishes. She likes making beautiful things. He likes breaking them. He isn't without his idiosyncrasies. He likes building things(people) and stabilizing(reassuring) them before knocking them down(ripping them apart piece by piece). There is something deeply rooted in his need-no- want to destroy, she is sure of it.

“Something on your mind, Röschen?” The deep, accented voice(always lightened with amusement) breaks her out the rambling thoughts that stemmed from just looking at his hands. Strade is like that, keeping you captivated even when you know what he is truly like. And she does, knows how he likes to tear into people, leaving them a sobbing broken mess on his bloodied basement floor. She knows(because she was there, not sobbing but filled with a sense of self loathing because of the ironic justice of the situation), yet she is still here. Breathing. Alive.

“Nothing in particular.” She says. She doubts that he would understand. He is far from poetic. Strade just look at her, head tilted and taking her in a way he normally doesn’t. His eyes are filled with an ardent curiosity, but then a much more familiar( premonition of terribleness to come) spreads across his face. He’s grinning(and she wants to run, but knows it will be pointless) as he stops the car.

“Rosie posie,” he tsks(using her most hated nickname) and looks at her with a chiding expression as if she is a child. “I really don’t know what to do with you, liebling.” He reaches up to unfasten his seatbelt and it recedes with an ominous click. “You’re so quiet!” He brushes one of his large hands(that could tear her apart if he wanted) against her cheek in a way that could be described as almost loving. To her, it is just condescending, full of treachery and dark, dark intent.

Regret, like a stone, sinks to the pit of her stomach as he crosses over the divide speedily for someone his size and hovers of her. He is idly brushing a strand of hair out of her face as he hums. “That's alright. Ich weiß, wie du dich dazu bringt, etwas Lärm zu machen.” 

The foreign words do not need to be translated: He will make her pay. Rose's brain knows this. She's been with him too long not to. The only question is how, how will he make her cry out, how will he make her feel broken and used. The darkest crevices of her mind ask a question that she tries oh so very hard to repress, but it still manages to rear its ugly head and ask: Will I be able to put myself together after this?

Strade’s callused thumb moves over her lips, and she quivers despite not wanting to. His expression almost fond. “You have such pretty lips, liebling…” He lets out a wistful sigh, cheeks flushing, “They give me…Ideas.” She pales. His ideas never end well for her. Never. They usually end with her whimpering and crying(she never begs him to stop, knows he won't) as he looks down at her with the same(I'm glad I kept you’) expression, his cheeks flushed and his tongue running over his lips.

He reaches down with the other hand to the pocket where(she knows) he keeps his knife and draws it out. She knows it well. The ridges of steel, and the cold feeling of metal against her bare skin until he presses down and the sensation is replaced with pain(and he smiles). He is still rubbing his thumb along her bottom lip, humming to himself. 

“Open your mouth, and stick out your tongue.”

She's panicking, eyes flickering to the knife and breathing hard. His grin just widens. “I have lots of ways to make you open your mouth, Rosie posie.” There is a glint(a warning) in his eyes as he continues, “I don't really care how it happens, but I think you might.” She definitely will.

She swallows. It's better to just go along with him. It's always easier(not really) if it goes his way. She opens her mouth and sticks out her pink tongue, looking up at him. His flush is starting to creep down towards his neck. She never thought she would be afraid to see someone blush. It is supposed to be an action paired with embarrassment, but Strade is not embarrassed(he never is.) He is excited(and that is inexplicably worse).

“Ahh...Braves Mädchen…” He trails the handle of the knife down the middle of her tongue. Then, he flips the knife so the blade portion is pressing down on the slippery organ. She whimpers, and he smiles(that damned smile). “Don't worry! I like the way you use that tongue.” His voice is husky, and he presses against so his cock is grinding into her stomach. “I just have an idea about how you can use that tongue even better!”

He presses the knife down and draws it down slowly. She whimpers, feeling the pain blossom along the line he is drawing across her. It isn't a deep wound, just a simple slice. Her tongue is dripping blood and Strade’s eyes are transfixed on the image of her bleeding tongue. He kisses her hard. It isn't human. It is hungry, poking raw at the exposed nerve endings and sucking at her bloodied tongue. She whimpers into it and he only groans, before kissing even harder as tweaks a nipple roughly through the fabric of her shirt.

He is panting as he pulls back, licking at his lips. “Scheiße…” He pants, voice full of yearning(animalistic). “You're so…” He pushes her hair back so he can look at her from above with the same almost love stricken(except this is not love) expression.

His hand shoots out between her seat and she finds her seat plunging back. He moves quick, all but sitting on her upper chest. He palms himself roughly before unzipping his pants(a sound that she hears often, too often) and unbuckling his belt(that he once used to beat her back raw when he wasn't too pleased with her) to reveal his leaking cock in front of her face. His head is already leaking with precum that he smears across her cheek.

“You know what I like.” He is breathless and looking down at her face, expecting obedience. That is she gives him. She takes him into her mouth, wincing as the ridges of him scraps against the cut he made on her tongue. Strade moans, fingers roughly knitting in her hair and pulling. “Gott, du bist so gut zu mir…” He thrusts into her mouth, making her gag. He always does. The sounds of her choking, sputtering and the look of her teary eyes when she does tempts him too much.

“You're always so warm! I can't get enough of it…” He punctuates with another hard thrust. “It's fine if you don't talk...You don't need to with a mouth like this...Hah…” His other hand is gripping the leather of the seat as he fucks her mouth. He drives her into mouth with no mercy(he has none), making her eyes water everytime he hits the back of her throat. He never pulls out enough for her to get a breath, stifling her with his cock and slamming it right back despite how he must know her lungs burn(he just doesn't care). Finally, she feels him tense, and he groans as he spills into her mouth, hot and musky.

Rose swallows and takes in a breath when he pulls away. Her lips are saliva coated and her tongue is pulsating in pain at being rubbed raw. Strade doesn't look done, and he yanks on her hair. He positions her so she is facing away from him, knees and hands pressed against expensive leather. He pulls down her leggings and rubs against her, bending down so he can bite her ear. Then, he thrusts in and Rose cries out. He is too much, too thick, too fast.

“Hah...You'll get used to it.” He grunts, slamming his hips into hers again. It is too much and she feels like she is being severed. Strade is moaning shamelessly as he drives into her, but all she feels is a splitting pain through her lower half. Suddenly, his hand is sneaking down to the apex of her thighs and he is rubbing her apex in gentle circles. Her body takes the break from the pain even though her mind pleads it not to. The mind is cut away as soon as the body sees a way out of the pain. 

Her cheeks begin to flush and she mewls. He snickers(adding to her growing humiliation). “Really...Just like a bitch in heat, aren't you?” His breath is hot against the shell of her ear and it is searing. She feels like she is being burned from the inside out with every thrust into her core. “Scheiße...You're so fucking tight, no matter how many times I shove my cock in this tight cunt.” The dirty words seem to only make her hotter and she can't-

Rose bursts, all at once. She feels the colors swirl in front of her eyes, sees how they intermingle. Strade moans and thrusts raggedly until he fills her with his essence. She is panting and shuddering. So is he. He runs a hand through his hair messily as he purrs, “You really are too good to me…” She says nothing in response.

She laments that she can't get rid of the touch of him no matter how hard she tries. He can't destroy her. So, he will amuse himself recreating her(renovating) to someone that suits him perfectly. He will destroy her by her own pride and joy: Creation. 

It is so ironic Rose could cry. So, she does.


End file.
